


The Train West

by GwenhwyvarReads



Series: The Journey ( A Western AU) [3]
Category: Steven Universe (Cartoon)
Genre: Adoption, Alternate Universe - Human, Western AU, nonbinary!Ruby
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-22
Updated: 2017-10-22
Packaged: 2019-01-21 09:57:35
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,054
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12455025
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GwenhwyvarReads/pseuds/GwenhwyvarReads
Summary: This is a prologue for my Western AU,On the Lightning Trail.The main story focused on Sapphire, so I felt it would be good to show some of Ruby's backstory, why they have issues with self-worth, and why they would be so determined to give someone like Sapphire another chance.





	The Train West

They’d wished for an adventure. They’d prayed with hope and finally desperation until they’d given up entirely. The train rattled along across the barren, unchanging prairie, carrying it’s unhappy cargo further west, and the child stared out at the grass-filled world with dull eyes. Of the forty children that the Boston Children’s Aid Society had taken across the country, six were left to face the last stop on the line: the least of a collection of children that the world didn’t want. The child coughed, tasting smoke at the back of their throat, and curled their knees closer to their chest. Their head fell forward onto their knees and the child rubbed red-rimmed eyes on the scritchy material of an iron gray skirt.

Any moment, one of the aid workers would tell them to act like a lady and put their feet flat on the floor. It would have been nice to answer that their body was cramped and sore from sitting all day and that they weren’t a lady any more than a barn cat was, but getting their ears boxed for back talk wasn’t going to improve the day. The child also knew they should be grateful - they knew because they had been told every day of their life that they needed to be grateful. An orphan was a burden to society and the child in particular was a burden to anyone who was tasked with their upbringing, especially since they couldn’t seem to do anything right. If gratitude was the first rule of their life, then the second was their own inherent failure to be what people wanted them to be.

The only one who had listened to the child’s thoughts and feelings without declaring them to be thoroughly wicked and disrespectful was hundreds… thousands?... of miles away. The child had been through several orphan asylums in their short life, but that boy had stood out. The women said the little brat had a big mouth and he would reach a bad end one day, but the child had loved that big mouth. It was always stretched into a broad grin when he saw them, showing front teeth that still had a babyish gap, despite him being one of the big boys. The child honestly couldn’t imagine being twelve; that was nearly an adult! They didn’t know if they wanted to be that old either, but they had it on good authority that they couldn’t prevent that any more than they could choose where they lived. 

The train lurched and they were nearly thrown from their seat. The aid worker watching their car never looked up from her novel. They’d heard things about those novels. Boys and girls _did things_ in them. What things, they weren’t too clear on. They asked their friend once, but the boy had laughed and said it was nothing half so much fun as the trouble they were going to get into. He’d then tossed them a pair of pants and a shirt, putting his own cap on their curly head before the pair of them cut class to play on the docks all day long. The child closed their eyes tighter and tried to remember that laugh, but the monotonous rumble of the train drowned it out. Or maybe their memory was already fading. Their heart lurched, not unlike the train had, and the child held themselves tighter.

He’d hugged them before they left, sneaking into the girl’s dormitory at night and risking a lot worse than boxed ears. He’d held their small body so tightly that they couldn’t breathe, except maybe they couldn’t breathe because of the tears and the way their nose was running. He’d been crying too, but when they pointed it out, he said softly, so softly, “Cut it out, runt.” Those were the words he’d used, but the feelings hiding behind those words hurt more than an insult would have. Neither of them said goodbye or tried to make stupid promises. They knew, like every other child there, that some promises could never be kept and so weren’t worth making. 

If the aid workers going west with the child had thought the removal of his influence would stifle their behavior, that expectation could be added to the already existing heap of ways in which they would disappoint. Their friend’s habit of speaking with his hands, of speaking his mind loudly and enthusiastically, had forever ruined any effort to turn the child into a sober, obedient girl who spoke in whispers and sat with her hands neatly in her lap. They’d found freedom in sound and movement; the loss of any emotional support had only cemented their defiance. 

The child stuck their tongue out at the aid worker with the book. Whatever girls and boys did in those books, the child bet she’d never done it herself or she wouldn’t be reading about it so often. So there. They giggled a little at their own naughtiness before they were cut off by the ear piercing squeal of brakes. The whistle signaled the end of their chances and the train rumbled into the station. The unending vibration of the train lingered in the child’s body even after it came to a dead stop and they trembled walking across the platform. A sharp rebuke from the woman in charge hurried their dragging feet. 

In each town they stopped in, there was was a place the locals gathered to see the children. It was a church this time, but the child doubted the location would help answer the prayers they'd given up on. Hope rose, unbidden, and choked them, even as their heart felt as if it were sinking. Their name was called and their age given, but they didn't step forward. Maybe if they didn't move, the world could just stop. They wouldn't have to be rejected. They wouldn't have to look up into indifferent faces and be reminded that they didn’t have the pretty looks and pretty manners city people wanted and they didn’t have the size and strength the country folk were looking for. A hand was placed firmly between their shoulder blades and the child was compelled forward.

Someone stood in the crowd and came forward as well. Their heart was pounding in time with the brisk footsteps and the child looked up to see what miracle had finally befallen them. Cold, calculating eyes squinted down at them through thick half-moon spectacles. Time, the child had learned, took the soft flesh of childhood and carved the face to match the character of the soul. This woman in her austere, but expensive dress had features sculpted by a razor blade. No smile, no bit of fat or redeeming curve of bone interrupted the impression of harsh lines and angles, but that was all the child had time to think before their wrist was seized. 

They yelped and instinctively tried to jerk away, but the grip was too strong. The woman looked them over and felt the small, firm muscles of their arm. She ignored them and spoke directly to the woman from the Aid Society. “Undergrown and rather homely, but she seems sturdy enough. Is she healthy? Does she have any disreputable habits? A heavy hand can cure disobedience, but I’d rather not deal with a thief or a child liable to burn the house down around my ears.”

When the stunned aid worker made no reply, the woman pinched their jaw between her fingers and demanded to see their teeth as a measure of health instead. The painful pressure increased by the second, both in their jaw and in a deeper, more desperate place inside the child. Tears burned their eyes and blurred the awful vision before them, but the child refused to let them spill over. Beneath the overwhelming tide of shame and terror, their outrage was reaching a boiling point that frightened them almost as much as the woman. They clenched their teeth; defying her order, denying their urge to bite her, paralyzed and wrenched in so many directions that they thought they might rip apart at the seams and die. Or worse, give in to their temper and be beaten for the unforgivable crime of lashing out at an adult. They could even be turned out for that. Fate and force bore down on the trembling child. Soon there would either be the humiliation of surrender or the pain of violence repaying violence, but either way the child felt certain, in the depths of their breaking heart, that they were about to be damned beyond all salvation. 

Just as their teeth began to pry apart, as their choice would either have to be made or it would be made for them, the terrible grip released them. They found themselves lifted up from the unforgiving earth and wrapped in safety. The child shut their eyes and reached out, blindly giving themselves up to what their bewildered mind said must be an angel. They’d died after all and these gentle, cradling arms would carry them away. Except angels wouldn’t wear cotton button-up shirts and suspenders. They didn’t think so, at least. They probably wouldn’t smell like dried tobacco leaves or leather oil either. The child leaned into the chest rising and falling steadily beneath their cheek and listened to a heartbeat as frantic as their own. 

When the child looked up for the second time, they decided that they weren't being held by an angel but divine retribution might still be unleashed. The man resembled nothing so much as a ginger tomcat about to brawl, his bushy mustache and copper curls seeming to puff up in contained fury. Freckles and hectic splotches of red colored an otherwise pale face, but the blue eyes that glanced down at them were soft. 

The woman behind them squawked indignantly and that blue grew as cold as a midwinter sky when the man looked at her. It was only a look, but the woman who had bent over them like a malevolent giant grew silent and small under that reproachful stare. The man touched his hand to theirs where it rested against his shirt, covering it entirely.

“Madam, the stockyard is on the other side of town,” he said, calm in the way the lull in a storm was calm. No one moved. “I can only assume you are lost and very much confused, otherwise you would not be examining a helpless child as though it was an animal up for auction. My only other option would be to assume you've gone mad, making you insensible to the reality of what you are doing. Whichever the case may be, I suggest that you leave. Now.” 

As if the last word woke her from a daze, the aid worker blinked and reached out to take the woman’s elbow. The people in the pews were murmuring to each other and it didn’t sound like a benediction. Without another word, the woman shook off the aid worker’s hand. The corners of her mouth twitched and she took a deep breath, but the steady gaze of the man before her and the angry buzzing of gossip behind her made the woman hesitate. The woman turned on her heel and, with her head down, walked quickly down the aisle and out of the building.

The child was beginning to relax when they realized the man was putting them down. The world tilted and they snatched desperately at the man’s shirt collar, twisting their fists in the material and clinging with all their might. 

“No, don’t! Take me with you!” Tears and snot were running down their face and the very air they breathed ripped at their throat. They didn’t care. All the nights spent mourning the loss of what little they’d had and the days spent daydreaming of having a real family, all the resentment they’d felt at having no control over their life from what place they must call home down to the very clothes they wore, broke loose with that raw, voice cracking scream. They searched the man’s wide blue eyes for any sign of the kindness they’d first glimpsed, but could only find dismay. The man gave a slow shake of his head and the fire inside of their heart flared up with such intensity that it burned away the tears. “If you won't take me then I’ll...I’ll run away! I’ll live in a tree before I let anyone drag me one more step!”

The man wasn’t pushing them away, wasn’t moving to pull away from the little fingers frantically grasping at him, but the aid worker felt no such reluctance. She seized the child under arms and almost succeeded in wrenching them off, but still the child refused to let go even as the painful pressure took hold of them once more. 

“I’m so sorry, Sir! Here now! You let him go this instant!” The aid worker scolded and apologized in turns, wailing to the man and berating the child until there was nothing in their world but rough hands and harsh words. “What has gotten into you!? Are you possessed?! I’m sorry, she’s always been a handful and we’re at wits end to know what to with her! Let go, now! Let go!”

But they wouldn’t let go. They wouldn’t! Bit by bit the cloth was slipping through their sweat-slicked fingers. The force opposing them was too strong; even if they didn't give up it wouldn't matter in the end and they sobbed at the unfairness of a world where the people who didn't even want them would fight to keep them away from people who might. 

Then a force even greater than the one dragging them away crushed them close. The child found their face pressed into the man’s neck, their crying muffled. Safe. Safe to breathe, safe to let go. Their fingers ached and it was hard to open their hands, but their arms belonged around the man’s neck. The soft spoken gentleman was not like like their ragged, fast-talking friend, but the hug felt the same. 

“I do believe I’ve been given an offer I can’t refuse. I want to take this child,” he said quietly, continuing to hold them close. They could feel the vibration of his voice against their nose and cheek. The aid worker voiced an inarticulate protest and a steely edge entered the courteous drawl. “Yes, this child. Please don’t contradict me.”

“My name is Alex O’Malley and I’m the proprietor of the general store in Long Chance, a few days southwest of here. I have a more than adequate income to finance the education and housing of a child, but until this moment I have not had that blessed opportunity. I’d be much obliged if you’d bring me any paperwork I’m required to sign, but I’ll be honest. If you don’t, I suspect I’ll be still be taking home a new family member as soon as I find the tree this little bird flies off to.” 

It took the child a moment of Mr. O’Malley chuckling to realize that, yes, they did mention running away and living in a tree. They giggled and hazarded a glance at the aid worker. She didn't seem to have developed much imagination, despite all the dimestore novels she'd read on the trip, and stared blankly at the laughing pair. Failing to find the humor, she fell back on protocol and read a question off a sheet of paper that had been laying on the altar. 

“Very well. You’re employed and appear to be educated. Are you married, Mr. O’Malley? A child needs the guiding influence of both a father and a mother to lead a normal life.”

“An opinion I'm sure that widows and widowers, grandparents, other family members, and any other responsible adult who has even taken it upon themselves to raise a child appreciate. By my own choice, I am not married. What I am is a member of a close knit and supportive community who will supply everything a child needs to live a happy and productive life. Can you say any of the same for yourself? Are you suggesting the child is better off in an orphan asylum than in a loving home?”

The aid worker’s cheeks were turning even more red than when she was reading. The child hid their grin and watched the fun. They were learning a new thing - defiance wasn’t always shown by losing your temper and yelling. Power wasn’t always in a clenched fist or an upraised hand. Politely and peacefully, but with unrelenting determination, Mr. O’Malley was winning. He wasn’t what the aid workers wanted either; he didn’t fit her idea of what was right. The child knew he was mad too. They felt it in the rapid beat of vein in his neck and the sharp way he was breathing through his nose. They knew anger in all it’s forms and they knew this was an injustice against them both. 

But the aid worker wasn’t looking Mr. O’Malley in the eyes anymore. She was handing him a paper to read and they were talking the nonsense adults seemed to think was necessary to keep the world in order. He shifted the child onto his hip, refusing to set them down even to sign his name. Something deep down, even deeper than their desire for a home, whispered that this is what they wanted one day. The power to make the world fair without hurting anyone. The power to give someone else a chance.

The child didn’t look back as Mr. O’Malley walked out of the church and into the sunlight. He was still carrying them and humming a cheerful tune under his breath. They couldn’t imagine what might happen next, but the sun was warm on their face and they picked up the tune easily. Mr. O’Malley didn’t complain when they kicked their heels to the beat, sometimes knocking him in the ribs, but even the giddy relief rushing through their veins couldn’t hold off the question. 

“Why?”

Mr. O’Malley pulled a gold pocket watch out of his vest and checked the time. He studied the watch face as if the important answers could be found there and then passed it to the child to hold. They found themselves fascinated by the red gemstone bezel on the latch release. They'd never seen anything so bright or pretty before. The deep red sparkled and demanded attention. The child thought no one would be able to overlook that little red stone. They were so focused on it that Mr. O'Malley startled them when he finally answered. "I suppose I have several reasons, but let’s just say I think birds of a feather ought to stick together. We couldn’t have you living up a tree now, either, little bird. Don’t you think so? Here’s a few questions of my own: it’s a few days until we reach home, so is there anything you need or want before we leave? Have you eaten?”

As if reminded of it’s existence by the question, the child’s stomach gurgled loudly and Mr. O’Malley burst out laughing. He set them down, taking back his watch and tucking it away, but before they could become worried what that might mean, he had taken their hand and was leading them down the street. Now that there was no cloud of gloom looming overhead, the child looked curiously in all directions. They patted the nose of every horse at every hitching post on their side of the street and no one slapped their hand. They pulled a pretty flower that had pushed it’s way up in the shade of a rain barrel and no one scolded them about picking weeds. 

Their first stop was a tea house with gold lettering on the big window and lacy curtains. The child had never been in such a fancy place, much less been taken out to eat, and they gazed about themselves in awe. There were bigger places in the city, but the brightly polished wood floor and the little roses painted on all the lamps were also friendlier than they imagined those places would have been. A pillowy lady, like a grand cupcake in her pink stripped dress and frills and poofy white hair, met them with open arms and embraced Mr. O’Malley. They watched from behind his long legs while they greeted each other and then he nudged them forward. 

“Congratulate me, Emmie my darlin’! I’ve become a father! Say hello to my new family member.” 

The cupcake lady looked down and gasped. “Goodness! You poor dear! You’re one of the children that came on the train, aren't you?” She kneeled down to their eye level and reached out. Impulsively, the child placed the flower in her hand and felt a flush of pride when they heard her breath hitch. It was a very beautiful flower - the same shape and color as the sun. Her eyes even got a little teary at their gift, though they worried a bit at how wilted it was starting to look. 

“Thank you, sweet pea. I'll go get a cup of water for this and then we’re going to feed you,” she said, reassuring them that the flower would be fixed. She touched her cheek and, much to the child’s delight, she even smelled of sugar and baked treasures. “I hope you like pie!” 

Mr. O’Malley piled a few extra cushions on a chair and set them on top. After that, the child thought of nothing except trying to fit an entire roast beef sandwich in their mouth and what kind of pie they wanted. The cupcake lady spared them the difficult decision by putting a slice of chess pie, apple pie, and a mixed berry pie each on a plate. They would later blame the abundance of pie for what they did next, bliss clouding their better judgement as they sucked the last dribbles of berry juice from their fingers, but when Mr. O’Malley asked again if there was anything they needed the child answered honestly.

“I need different clothes,” they said. The child used the tip of their finger to pick up every fallen crumb and, because Mr. O’Malley didn’t say anything, they kept talking. “I want to be able to run around and play without worrying about a dress. What I really, really want are trousers. Have you ever tried to climb a tree in a dress?” 

“I can’t say as I have, no,” he answered. The child’s head snapped up and they saw that Mr. O’Malley was watching them over steepled fingers. He didn't look angry, but he was clearly thinking hard about something. Suddenly the pleasure of being full became a painful ache in their gut and accusations filled their mind so rapidly that they barely began to flinch at one before the next hit them. They'd been greedy. They'd eaten too much pie. They'd asked for too much. They should never have brought up the forbidden topic of wearing different clothes. They’d found something good and ruined it in less than an hour. Mr. O’Malley was going to take them back. The aid worker would say she’d warned him. What would the adults do with them now? What? Why? WHY?!

Mr. O’Malley cleared his throat. They looked up at him, speechless with misery, and shrunk away when he came around the table to crouch beside their chair. The shadow of his hand fell across their face and the child braced themselves for the slap. They waited, tensed and holding their breath. They waited. The child cracked one eye open when there was no pain and a hand settled gently on their forehead.

“No fever, but you look a little pale and sweaty. Does your tummy hurt from all that pie?” He sounded worried, but the child couldn’t bring themselves to believe they weren’t in trouble. They shook their head. The child wanted desperately to apologize but their voice squeaked embarrassingly every time they opened their mouth. Their throat was too tight and they tried to swallow, but their mouth was dry. Mr. O’Malley pressed the teacup of sweet milk they’d been drinking into their hand and the child gulped it down gratefully. He must have been the smartest man in the world to just know what they needed, so when they looked up again it was with tentative hope that he could understand they didn’t mean to be bad. 

“You’re afraid,” he said and they nodded eagerly. Yes! That was right. They didn’t even need to articulate their thoughts! Relief washed over them and Mr. O’Malley smiled, but it didn’t stretch his mouth wide like their friend’s or makes the corners of his eyes crinkle like when they’d been laughing over pie. "Please don’t be afraid of me, child. I know we need time to get to know each other and for you to trust me, but can you trust in one thing at least? I won’t get mad at you for asking questions or answering them. I think honesty is just about one of the most important things in the world. Can you be brave enough to be an honest person?”

The child thought about this request carefully, turning the cup round and round in their hands to watch the little birds painted around the rim fly. They decided these were nice little birds, like the cupcake lady who owned them. Like Mr. O’Malley. They finally nodded, deciding that if he wanted an honest child then that’s exactly what they’d try to be. They thought perhaps they wanted to be honest too. Holding in all the words and thoughts was like trying not to throw up when they ate something bad; it left a nasty taste in their mouth and prolonged the misery. 

After saying goodbye to the cupcake lady, who said they could call her auntie from then on, Mr. O’Malley carried them down the street again and they laid their head on his shoulder. “We’re going to go see Jacques Reynard,” he explained. “His store has higher prices, but that man would tell a goose it was a swan if it waddled up with a dollar in it’s beak. We can be sure he won’t ask bothersome questions and that’s what matters. Mind that you don’t ever trust a man like that, but also keep in mind they can be useful under the right circumstances.”

With every word, the child was more certain that Mr. O’Malley was brilliant. They didn’t quite understand everything he said, but they resolved to remember it anyway. They would be getting trousers, which was the most important detail to understand. They were going to waddle up with their dollar and no one was going to ask questions or say no. And no one did. Mr. Reynard had sharp eyes and he looked like he’d eat a goose that waddled in, not say it was a swan, but he smiled blandly when Mr. O’Malley said what he wanted. A pair of brown trousers, two shirts, and a pair of suspenders was placed on the counter and Mr. O’Malley shook hands after paying the bill. Mr. Reynard added a few red handkerchiefs to the pile and said he hoped they’d come again in the future. That was it. 

Somehow it was very anticlimactic. The child didn't think they had wanted a big fuss, but the lack of it just left them feeling confused and tired. Sleep would be good. Maybe the world would make sense again when they woke up… but then they didn't want that either! When the world made sense, everything was unhappy so… confused but happy was better? The child groaned and turned further into Mr. O’Malley’s collar. There was one more thing they wanted, so they decided they would try to be brave and honest just like he'd said he wanted. It would show how honest he was. 

“You said I'm making a new start, right? That's like… getting a new life,” the child said. Mr. O’Malley had sat them in the back of the big wagon he’d rented to bring supplies back to Long Chance. He’d rented a team of six mules to pull it and he was busy checking their harnesses when the child decided to start asking questions. They’d hidden behind some crates to change into their new clothing and marveled at how free they felt. They kicked their legs over the side and wiggled their bare toes in the air, delighted that they didn’t need to worry about their skirt flying up. “If I have a new life, can I have a new name to go with it?”

“I don’t see why not,” Mr. O’Malley called back. He left off resettling the collar on one of the mules and came to sit on the back of the wagon with them. When he wrapped an arm around them, the child threw both arms around him and held on. He patted their head and said, “I have a new name too, come to think about it. I’m going to be your Pa now. Do you know what new name you want?”

They’d been thinking about it fairly hard since they left the tea shop and the child felt they had a small idea. It was probably a stupid idea. He might not like it. Or he might laugh. But they liked how Mr. O’Mall...their pa. Pa. They had a father now. The thought hit them with the force of a lightning bolt and the child burrowed further into his side. Into their father’s side. For the first time, they had a real family they could hug and hide their face in. Pa’s shirt was getting a little wet, but he said clothes could always dry out. He wiped their eyes with their new red handkerchief and asked again if they had any ideas. 

“I... maybe... do you think it would be good…” they babbled before gathering their courage and blurting out the rest. “What do you call the red stone on your watch? I like it....it's bright and bold and...”

“And very valuable,” Pa said, looking at them thoughtfully. “It's called a ruby and I think that would be a wonderful name: Ruby."

**Author's Note:**

> Orphan trains were a historical reality. Cities were overcrowded and sanitation was limited, leading to the spread of disease. Groups of parentless children and those whose parents could no longer afford to keep them were sent west with the promise of a clean place to live and a future. Of course some effort was made to place them in safe environments, but in this time period there were no child labor laws and not much regulating child welfare. At Ruby's approximate age of 8-ish, they could easily have been employed in a sweatshop (likely a city textile factory) where their risk of being maimed or even killed by machinery and poor work conditions would have been high.


End file.
